Chap07

All writing…is motivated…by a desire to make the risky trip to the Underworld, and to bring something or someone back from the dead.

—MARGARET ATWOOD, Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing

There is nothing quite as satisfying as typing “The End” on a manuscript you’ve spent months—or, more likely, years—writing. But that doesn’t mean you’re finished. To us, completing the first draft means that the fun can begin: now we can dig down and mine the ore of what we really want to say.

“The discoveries we make during revision are a vital part of the writing process,” Sue William Silverman notes in Fearless Confessions (24). The word “discoveries” is key here. What a writer learns about the past in the process of revision and rewriting can hold the key to what makes a particular memoir shine. As Silverman puts it, “It’s only through writing about events after they happen—as we craft our memoirs—that we come to understand what they mean” (45).

While almost every writing teacher you encounter will sing the praises of revision and rewriting, every writer will ultimately need to find his or her own path through what often feels like a thicket. For an example very close to the page, each one of us—Lynn and Lisa—has a distinctly different approach to both writing and revision. What this amounts to, in the end, is that we’re simply hiking the same terrain wearing different shoes. We decided it would be most helpful to you if we consolidated our different methods into a menu of options you can try yourself.

Lynn, a performer and director as well as a writer, learned early on how the act of writing lives in the body as well as incubates in the mind. When a passage proves difficult, reading it aloud often provides an answer or at least inspiration. Poets in particular extol the virtues of using the audible voice when writing. The first stories, after all, were shared in community and passed down from person to person. Albert Lord’s elemental book The Singer of Tales is an excellent resource for learning about early oral culture.

Performing your chapters aloud, whether to yourself, to friends, or to writing group members, lets you hone your voice and develop your ear. Awkwardness is easy to hear when you read aloud. Use this technique to explore the pace and rhythms of your language and voice, too. It’s particularly good for making sure scenes are vital: elements like rising and falling action, tempo, and balance of internal with external action become heightened.

At the same time, putting your work out there in acoustic space makes it real: the voice takes on timbre and tone and changes the quality of the room, the body and mind come together, and words become palpable. As Donald Hall notes in his 1985 essay, “Bring Back the Out-Loud Culture,” “If when we read silently we do not hear a text, [then] we slide past words passively, without making decisions, without knowing or caring about [the words’ tone]…. In the old Out-Loud Culture, print was always potential speech; even silent readers, too shy to read aloud, inwardly heard the sound of words.”

The act of writing itself employs the hand, the eye, and the brain. But when we read aloud, the whole dimension of the physical opens up. One of Lynn’s favorite ways to begin a revision, whether her own or a student’s, involves having another person read the writer’s words so that the writer can sit back and hear them outside of himself. Nothing improves the nuances of dialogue more than reading aloud. Spoken dialogue has to pass the “authenticity” test—a wrong word, an awkward phrasing, a broken flow are all easily revealed. Some writers write standing up in order to further heighten the physicality of writing. Many writers choose to write in longhand rather than on the computer for this reason. However you choose to do it, the more aspects of yourself you involve in your creation, the more deeply you claim your authorship.

In Lisa’s book about writing fiction, The Mind of Your Story, she emphasizes the importance of printing out a copy of your manuscript as soon as you type “The End” and then putting it away. Lisa has found that the creation of a physical document, as opposed to a file on her computer, one that she puts in a three-ring binder that joins its companions on a bookshelf, pulls the manuscript off her left brain’s front burner so that she can move on to other projects.

While Lisa prefers to let manuscripts sit for six months or even longer, this isn’t always possible when a project (like this one) has a deadline. So when she drafts her monthly column for Authorlink.com, for example, she prints it out and sets it aside overnight, then edits it and prints out a new copy, doing this for several days until she’s satisfied with the result.

Not everyone needs a hard copy, of course, but Lisa has found that a hard copy’s physical presence provides a powerful incentive to move on to another project. Equally important to her is longhand editing when she returns to the manuscript after its closet time. Whether you choose to edit in longhand or on the screen is ultimately your choice.

A comfortable chair, a colored pen, sticky tabs—these are Lisa’s primary tools for revision and rewriting. The colored pen makes her edits stand out from the black print (she prefers blue ink, but any color will do); the sticky tabs mark thematic issues she wants to make certain are carried through, plot points that need to be brought to conclusion, and other narrative threads that she doesn’t want to forget when she finishes her read-through.

While she’s looking at these holistic issues, at the same time Lisa is line editing—adding and subtracting or changing words, moving or deleting phrases and sentences, writing “awk” (for “awkward”) in the margin so she can address passages for clarity when she types in her edits, getting rid of word repetitions, and tightening up her prose to the point where she won’t be embarrassed to see her name above it.

Lynn prefers to do her editing on her computer. Each time we’ve edited a chapter in this book, Lynn has typed her changes using Microsoft Word’s Track Changes feature, while Lisa has first scribbled all over a hard copy and then entered them. You may well find a middle ground when you begin your own revision. Each of us employs different strategies to visualize and apprehend the component parts—and the totality—of the manuscript. The point is that you should play with different approaches until you find what works best for you.

Both of us, however, have found that, because we have put our manuscripts away for a period of time, a marvelous thing has happened: we can revisit them without being married to anything we’ve written. We come back to our work with an editorial rather than an authorial eye and so are able to cut away the most gorgeous phrases for the greater good of the larger piece. The editorial eye sees the holistic picture, not just the priceless prose of one section. By all means keep your priceless prose in a separate “outtakes” file, because such tidbits often become the seeds of future works.

In On the Teaching of Creative Writing, Wallace Stegner refers to “the laboratory of pen, paper, and wastebasket” (59). We can’t stress enough how much the latter is the writer’s friend. Don’t be afraid to throw things out. If something “feels” wrong, it probably is. If a phrase hits the ear with a false note, pay attention. Read the paragraph aloud without the offending portion to determine if it’s needed. Or, if something’s clearly missing, scribble it in the margin. If you’re dealing with a longer scene, open a new file in your computer and type it out. As this, too, will be edited later, there’s no need to get it just so this first time. Just get it on the page, if it needs to be there. Throwing things out does not mean permanently deleting them. We believe words can be recycled.

Revising your work involves reexamining both the big picture and the smaller details. The idea of fixing everything that seems problematic can be daunting, especially if you’re new to the process. We suggest you approach revision in sections rather than attempting to tackle everything at once.

We usually begin with big-picture aspects of structure and plot: Do the elements work together and in a sequence that leads the reader where we want her to go? A key issue here is intentionality: What do you hope the reader will feel or think by the end of the book?

Revision is a process that allows you to see your work in a new way. We’ve organized the following as a series of questions prompting you to bring a fresh vision to your story. By taking you through this revision series with the major themes of each chapter, we’re aiming to allow you to make the best use of the spotlight writing exercises throughout the book.

These questions encourage you to distill the catalyst for your story, giving the reader a context for all that follows. Your occasion of the telling grounds both you, the writer, and your reader. It introduces the story and why it’s important and gives the reader a reason to keep going. Keynotes for the occasion of the telling are immediacy and consequence.

The two yous establish the collaboration of the experiencing narrator in the past and the remembering narrator in the present. While both of these selves coexist, thinking of them as distinct brings to the forefront the transformation the speaker undergoes through the journey of the story. The two yous directly proceed from the occasion of the telling and bind the story in time and space.

4. Does the memoir’s structure accommodate the movement between the two yous?

Plot and structure are the basis of your story. Here you’ll look at what the story is about (plot) and the mode of its telling (structure). As we explored in chapters 3 and 4, not only does action have an arc, but it rises and falls, suggesting more than one way your story can unfold for the reader. As you revise, you’ll take a fresh look at what incites your story, how the scenes work to carry it forward, and the structural umbrella for the story. This checklist is extensive, because plot and structure touch every aspect of your memoir.

2. What is the chief question of the story? (The occasion of the telling is most useful here.)

8. What are the qualities of the conflict? Are they largely internal or external?

Scenes are the building blocks of your narrative, each beginning with a catalyst and then rising in either internal or external action that keeps the reader actively engaged in the story. Reordering and rearranging scenes can be one of the most rewarding aspects of the revision process, so pay attention to where in your narrative each scene belongs as well as how well it works. Don’t be afraid to pick up sections as well as paragraphs or entire scenes and move them to another place. Just be sure to save your original work with a new file name (and date) before you begin your revision. Another way to approach this process is to construct a visual scene map or a brainstorming diagram.

Distinctive language and details are the workhorses of good writing and can reveal character as well as keep your story moving forward. Once you’ve finished your first draft, patterns of imagery and metaphor will reveal themselves and can be tightened to your narrative’s advantage. You’ll also want to check your details for historical accuracy and make sure your setting is as vivid as possible. This is a good moment to make sure that your metaphors are true to your milieu and that you have double-checked for anachronisms. The best settings are as distinctive as vivid characters.

Discovering your voice is one of the most exciting revelations of writing your story. But because your writing voice is different from your speaking voice, you will want to revise with an ear toward getting rid of the overly casual and often circuitous ways we tend to speak. Use the questions below to hone your writing voice and to make it more clearly your own. This is a place where reading aloud is crucial.

1. If this were not your memoir, how would you describe the voice that you hear?

Once you’ve attended to all of the matters above, take a hard look at your memoir as a whole, considering these bigger questions as you do so.

While there are other issues that can arise in a manuscript, we’ve found that authors who can answer each of these questions succinctly are well on their way to a polished product.

Nearly every writer of memoir struggles with the dilemma of public versus private in exposing a memoir to the larger world. Do we have the right to tell our stories, knowing that other people will be affected by what we reveal, particularly family members, close friends, and spouses? In the pages of this book we’ve cited numerous authors, many of whom discuss the process itself and, in particular, the importance of claiming your story. As Laura Furman says in her memoir, Ordinary Paradise, “Writing is the best way I know to remember us all” (6).

The sharing of these life events may cause discomfort to others to whom you are close, but we write about particular times in our lives because we must. In the same way that our voices must be heard, we must write our stories, because for those of us who choose to do so, it is the only way to integrate those events and make sense of them enough to move forward in our lives.

In Searching for Mercy Street, Linda Gray Sexton explores in detail how she was compelled to write about her fraught relationship with her mother, the poet Anne Sexton. Almost ten years after her mother’s death, Linda Gray Sexton discovered that her writing was suffering (this after publishing four novels): “This time the more I had tried to hide behind the wall of my fiction, the less I was able to produce…. Perhaps what I needed to do was to write about the issue directly. No disguises this time around. No more running away” (300).

Dani Shapiro records a similar difficulty that caused her to begin her memoir Slow Motion: “I felt stuck in my fiction…. My three novels all revolved around a central calamity. I felt like my own autobiographical material was controlling me. It was clear that I needed to wrestle my past to the ground. I needed to pin it in time, to capture it as if it were a wild animal that I could domesticate—or at least put behind bars” (interview reprinted in Slow Motion, back matter, p. 10).

Similarly, in his essay “Lifting the Veil,” Henry Louis Gates Jr. writes that when he wrote his memoir Colored People, he had to tell family and racial secrets, even though many people approached him and said, “Did you fear that this was a risk?” Gates answers: “The answer is yes. But I wasn’t any more honest about our culture or about my mother’s family than I was about myself. That was important to me. I took myself as the bottom line. I think mine is the first generation of black people in America who can afford to be this open” (109).

Like Gates, many writers feel that their greatest role as artists is to lift the veil and reveal the pain of their lives, which often centers on their race, class, or sexuality. As Toni Morrison says in “The Site of Memory,” “My job becomes how to rip that veil drawn over ‘proceedings too terrible to relate.’ The exercise is also critical for any person who is black, or who belongs to any marginalized category, for, historically, we were seldom invited to participate in the discourse even when we were its topic” (191). Part of telling the truth of our lives is digging deep into its challenges. We must write where the energy is.

Some writers have found that they can assuage the guilt or shame of revealing the difficulties or challenges in their lives through the effects of their stories on readers. Others take courage and find validation when they read a story that underscores their life experience. When we spoke in chapter 1 of the power of witnessing, we weren’t suggesting that the writer has an ethical obligation to share the hard journeys but rather that capturing the pain of the human experience and bringing it to light for others is right and ethical for many writers.

Ian Frazier addresses the guilt that many encounter as they reveal what not only others but often they themselves feel should be kept secret. In “Looking for My Family,” he notes: “There’s no escaping that—guilt is the headwind that you sail into. It’s incredibly strong” (180). Frazier insists that you absolutely can combat this guilt, whether by giving your money to charity or through some other means. In addition, he suggests asking permission of those who are in your story. “Guilt is a form of narcissism,” he says (ibid.).

Each writer has to put his or her own demons to rest on this issue. There isn’t a template for how to handle the thorny issues of bringing personal stories into the public realm. Fortunately, many have written about the guilt of revealing family stories as well as about the secrets of their own lives and have lived through the struggle to find that the end result—the connection with others through their choice to reveal the truth—is worth the challenges. Henry Louis Gates Jr. gives us these words of advice: “Be prepared for the revelation of things you don’t even dream are going to come up” (108).

Once you have a draft of your memoir that you’ve either revised to your satisfaction or that you find you can’t revise any further at present, your next step is to seek feedback. When you’ve brought your manuscript along as far as you can, it can be because either you feel you’ve run out of ideas, your momentum is flagging, or you feel plain stuck. While you may know you want or need to change the structure, adjust the plot, improve the details, or deal with other issues, you’re just not sure how to accomplish this.

Rest assured that this “out of gas” state of mind comes to all writers at one time or another and that it signals the need for other people’s opinions. That’s right: your story now requires an audience to develop further. If you’re already a member of a critique group or a writing support group, now is the time to ask the group to read your work and offer comments. If you don’t have a group like this, you may be able to start one with writers with a similar level of commitment, find one online, take a writing class, or venture to one of the many writing conferences held across the country throughout the year.

A strange but frequently experienced paradox of sharing your work is that, while you can easily picture yourself at a book signing or talking to Oprah about your work, the idea of sharing it with people you know can be scary. We feel exposed when we open our work to criticism and feedback. Like stage fright, this feeling never goes away entirely, but we increasingly appreciate that the benefits—the validation we receive and the steady improvement of our writing—outweigh our discomfort.

Some writers use family members or friends as sounding boards, especially when they wish to get reactions from others who know part of the story they’re telling. These readers will have a familiarity with the cultural setting of the memoir and therefore can be asked about the authenticity of the memoir’s world. For others, this group of people closest to the work is one to be avoided: sometimes when people have something at stake (their truth versus yours, perhaps), they cannot overcome their subjective investment in the story. To them, it’s their story too, and this can create a conflict. At the same time, those closest to you may be unwilling or unable to offer the critical response you need at this juncture. Praise is marvelous, but when we’re stuck, we need to know what’s wrong and how we might fix it. At some point, each memoir writer must approach the issue of involving intimate others in his own way.

As we discussed earlier in this chapter, you have an ethical responsibility toward your own story both to be as accurate as you can and to find its essential truth through the process of writing it down. It’s natural to want to spare the feelings of others, especially those closest to us, and yet that isn’t always possible, not if consideration of others hampers our realization of the story we’re telling. As Alice Kaplan notes in “Lady of the Lake,” “Writing about yourself is a high-wire balancing act between revelation and a need to set bounds, to respect your own need for privacy and the right to privacy of others” (99, emphasis in the original).

For all these reasons, you will want to find others with whom to share your work who respect your right to tell your story, treat the writing with the respect and care it deserves, and genuinely share your desire to make the end result as good as it can be. This last, enhancing the writing and execution of the story as much as possible, is paramount in the feedback process.

SPOTLIGHT EXERCISE

Writing: Who are the voices in your head? Are they encouraging you? If so, what are they saying? Write down their words of encouragement. Or, conversely, are they trying to stop you from telling your story? If that’s the case, write down who these voices are and the roadblocks they’re putting in your way. By identifying how others feel about your story, you honor their place in your story. Either way, whether the voices in your head are cheering you on or creating self-doubt, you must assert your right to speak and claim your story.

Writing groups or a writing coach or teacher can give you a detailed critique that addresses specific issues in your draft. Other avenues of voicing your story in public space include:

1. Open mics: Most communities have places where writers can read their works to small audiences with question-and-answer sessions or talkbacks afterward. The Q&A, especially if moderated by a friend or colleague, allows your audience to respond to specific aspects of the memoir.

2. Talks to specific groups: Preparing a chapter or a specific section of a memoir as a talk to a community, social, or church group is another way to air the material and have the audience weigh in. Most memoirs deal with challenging life situations. Groups exist to advise and provide support for family members with illnesses, those dealing with a death in their family, or spousal issues. Talks like these are an excellent way to identify the sections of the manuscript that resonate with others. They are also a great way to build the future audience for purchasing your book once it has been published.

3. Writing or artist conferences: Take the memoir or sections of it to writing retreats, summer conferences, or local writing organization meetings where it can benefit from the workshop process. At the very least this kind of forum imbues your manuscript with credibility. Once out in the world, the manuscript touches others and is shaped in return.

4. Classes or critique groups: Writing or revising chunks of your manuscript in a creative writing class or a generative writing or critique group allows you to polish your memoir in a supportive environment. Classes can provide critical tools for honing your work. In a generative or critique writing environment, as others grow familiar with your writing and your story, the group can help you identify any remaining problem areas as well as provide emotional support and community.

Walking the line between others’ demands and your own need for confession and closure will almost certainly require some tough choices. But, in the end, your memoir is your recording of your story. The toughest question as you begin is deciding whether it’s more important for you to achieve catharsis by sharing your story or to acquiesce to the wishes of those who may be hurt or offended by what you must write. Once you’re convinced of the necessity and importance of writing your story, no matter what others think, you’re well on your way.

In this book we’ve endeavored to show you that writing a successful memoir is far more than simply writing down what you remember. Using the Fiction Writer’s Toolkit, you can write a story that can make a difference to others, whether they’re negotiating a similar rite of passage, wishing to learn about lives different from their own, or seeking marvelous stories.

Using the tools we’ve provided, you’re now ready to turn your experience into a story that will resonate with others and to begin a process that will teach you much about yourself. We look forward to reading your work!